


The Haunting of Thornhil

by soyforramen



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Cults, Gore, Horror, Mind the Tags, Snakes, TW: Blood, dead bodies, getting buried alive, if it's been in a horror movie it might be in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyforramen/pseuds/soyforramen
Summary: A week long stay began as a college project, only to end up unearthing secrets that were left better buried.





	The Haunting of Thornhil

Police Interview, Rock County PD, October 13, 1996, 2:23 a.m.

A raven haired man draped in a jean jacket sits at a table, his arm cuffed to its leg. His eyes stare at his hands, hands coated with dirt and a dark, viscous substance.  
“It was just a thesis project.”

His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. He slides the wool beanie from the crown of his head to lay on the table in front of him. His thumb runs across a dark brown stain.

“It was just supposed to be a god damn thesis,” he repeats.

He looks up into the camera, his face gaunt, eyes haunted.

The screen cuts to black.

October 6, 12:46 p.m.

The screen shakes for a moment, a dizzying whirl of greens and yellows, until the world uprights itself. The focus is on a woman pacing across the porch of a broken down building. Her red hair gleams in the midday sun, a violent contrast to the shadow and gloom behind her. 

The camera zooms out filling the frame with the house. Nothing about it fits together correctly, an angle or a joining off enough that the eye stumbles across it. Lines and angles refuse to stay still, sliding one into the other. Blink, and it resets as if nothing was out of place.

It had always been this way with Thornhill, and it would continue to be this way long after Cheryl Blossom died. Thornhill was the only constant the Blossoms had ever known. It was the source of wealth, privilege, tragedy. 

That’s why this week had to be perfect. It had to be if Cheryl was to take her rightful place as heir. If she was to save her family, to save the business, there could be no fuck ups. After Jason had passed, his life tragically, cruelly cut short, it had fallen to her to ensure the survival of the family. 

It was both an honor and a privilege, a heavy burden she alone must bear. Such a perilous undertaking had required months of planning and work, but once she’d made up her mind to bring Thornhill back to the light, so to speak, things had fallen into place easily.

Survival would require dragging the family into the modern era. The world was increasingly connected and the spotlight was shining ever brighter on people like the Blossoms. It was a necessity to let the world know who they were, where they’d come from. Otherwise no one would give a damn if one more centuries-old company would go under, save for those who would dance on the grave of the Blossom name.

“Are we rolling?” Cheryl snaps, impatient to get on with it. She has one week to get this right, or else. And what better way than capitalizing on the lust for voyeurism and scandal?

Off-screen comes her answer, and her face blooms into a smile fit for any newscaster reporting on the latest gruesome tragedy.

“Thank you ghoulies, ghoulettes, and other denizens of hell. My name is Cheryl Blossom and it is my honor and privilege to welcome you to Thornhill. We’ve brought together six acquaintances to stay at one of the most haunted places on the East Coast for one week, all for your entertainment.

“The rules for this week are simple -” she pauses to wink at the camera, “- Make it out alive.” Her painted red lips slide into a dangerous smirk. “If you can.”  
Cheryl stills a moment longer and the camera feed shuts off.

“Did you get all that?” Cheryl snaps.

“It wasn’t exactly Hamlet,” a dark-haired man ill-dressed for the heat mutters.

Cheryl narrows her eyes at him and he nods just enough to appease her. She stalks off to snap off some other victim’s head.

“If she weren’t so hot I might have let you talk me into working Doiley’s production,” a young woman with pink and brown hair says. Toni lifts a Nikon N90s to her eye and takes several pictures of the house, a loud shutter with every snap.

“And if I didn’t owe you rent I wouldn’t have let you talk me into working for Madame Satan,” Jughead says. He hits the button to rewind the digital display. It wasn’t Tarantino worthy, not even worthy of the price this camera must have cost, but it was good enough for his R.U. professors. 

Somehow his name had come up when Cheryl began her search; even more surprisingly, he'd been chosen out of all the other film students. It had taken Toni over a month to bribe, coax, and threaten him into agree to this warped camping trip. It wasn’t until she reminded him that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance that he’d relented.

What Jughead didn’t tell her was that the equipment provided by the university and a very hefty endowment would have been enough to get him to agree to this silly project. This was the first time Jughead had come close enough to what was being hailed as a technical marvel and it was a huge move up from the bulky hand-held camera he’d been using since high school. The steadi-cam alone was worth dealing with a devil like Cheryl Blossom.

Toni’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “If you’re done slobbering over that thing, I’m ready to head for the back of the house.”

As happy as she is that he’d finally agreed to this macabre Real World knock-off, she still can’t understand his fixation on that damn camera. He waves her off and goes back to fiddling with something or another on the side. 

Toni rolls her eyes. Taking care to watch her step, she picks her way through the brush, pausing every now and then to take one more picture of the broken down building. She’s thankful she’d worn old tights today - artfully ripped - as it looks like this place hasn’t ever seen a lawnmower or, at the least, a hungry goat. 

A broken window catches the sunlight and she raises her camera once more, looking for the right angle. This is going to be the crux of her portfolio - the ruin of rural spaces, the forgotten past. It’s no Dorothea Lange, but it’s sappy enough her advisors will eat it up. Just one more stupid, souless project to get her foot through the barely open door of the industry.

Whatever people claimed to have seen, whatever they claimed happened doesn’t matter to her. Ghosts aren’t real and any legends that might have spawned about this place were nothing more than rumor and urban legend. Even if it was real, it’s nothing compared to what she’s already lived through, what she’s already escaped. 

The wind kicks up and a sweet, pungent, tart smell whips around her. It’s a taste that brings bile to the back of her throat, a smell Toni thought she’d left long behind her. She lowers her camera and looks back towards the odd group Cheryl has brought together.

The blonde one with the too-tight ponytail is still standing next to the car in the driveway, shifting and gripping her bag closer to her as if she’s afraid to leave the way out of this place. A mouse among the personality of lions, Toni think, and lifts the camera to take a photo of the pair. Not for the first time, Toni wonders how Cheryl had made her choices. The camera shutter clicks, and the blonde turns to look at her.

The uncomfortable, gnawing feeling of being watched is back, only this time Betty is able to find the source of the eyes. The girl dressed in punk and pink hasn’t set down her camera since they’d arrived. There’s a tightness to the air around them, a crackling sort of energy that usually portends a thunderstorm. 

Only the sky is as blue as it’s ever been and the birds are chirping away happily around them. If anything it’s proof that this week will be nothing more than a string of days bound up in boredom and melancholy. At least it’s gotten her out of the apartment.

Or rather, at least Betty was bullied out of the apartment. Until last week she hadn’t realized she and Cheryl had gone to the same college, nor did realize Cheryl cared enough to track her down. The proposal was simple enough: conduct a series of interviews that observed reactions to an allegedly haunted house. It was perfect timing on Cheryl’s part; Betty still hadn’t been able to find a topic for her senior paper. And yet it was almost too perfect in hindsight, as if there were unseen forces at work making sure she faced her own demons.

She raises her hand to block the sun and stares at the house in question. Rationally, she knows it’s just a house. And yet there’s something there behind the awnings and siding that sets her teeth on edge. Perhaps it’s the window sills that aren’t flush against the wall, or maybe it’s the angle roof that makes it seem malicious.

Every instinct is screaming that this is not her place, that this house is wrong, that this week is wrong.

Betty takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, it's just a house. Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s just a house, she reminds herself, made up of wood and metal and glass. It’s not good or evil, it just is. 

After all she’s been through and still she’s willing to let something as simple as a house eat away at her fears. Years of work undone by ten minutes in front of an abandoned house. And yet, she can’t let go. Not yet. Perhaps after this weekend she can finally -

Movement. There, just out of the corner of her eye. In the upper window closest to the road.

Betty turns to look, but there’s nothing there. Just cobwebs and dust that had been there minutes ago.

Breakfast threatens to make a sudden reappearance and she digs in her bag for something to calm her stomach.

“V, are you sure we can’t -”

Next to her, Veronica sighs heavily and crosses her arms. Behind dark sunglasses, she watches Cheryl grill the red-head about his ‘scripted’ tour. What Cheryl really wants is to make sure he doesn’t bring up anything that doesn’t fit with her sanitized version of the Blossom’s bloody history.

As much as people love to rub Veronica’s nose in the Lodge’s long history of piracy and bootlegging, at least they never had to deal with rumors of human-sacrifice and deals with the devil. There was nothing supernatural about the Lodge fortune but hard work and smart business. The same couldn’t be said for the Blossom’s waning empire.

“We need you here, B,” Veronica says. She slips off her shades and sets an earpiece on her lips. “The interviews are the crux of this whole deluded attempt at entertainment.”

That, and she needs Betty to bring this whole thing tumbling down. Betty had insisted Veronica be here, but it had been Lodge money to convince Cheryl to let her stay. And it would be Lodge money that would ensure nothing went as planned.

“Besides it’s not like this dump,” she gestures towards the house, “is real. One week here and we don’t have to worry about anything until graduation. Except for spring break in Cabo.”

As much confidence as Veronica projects, some of Betty’s anxiety is contagious. Perhaps Veronica should have packed more comfortable shoes, just on the off chance the rumors were real. Louboutins weren’t exactly a choice shoe in the athletic world and would hinder her should anything -

She shakes that thought off. It won’t do to get cold feet, not when she’s been given the opportunity to mess with Cheryl Blossom once again. Like a moth to a flame, neither family could keep away from the other. At least, not when there was the hint of a possibility it could lead to ruin. And Veronica always had been a master of planning on the fly. Cheryl had always claimed to be an agent of chaos; time to see how she'd deal with Veronica's personal touch of chaos.

Then again… Her eyes slide to the stacked red-head as he makes his way over to the weirdos with the cameras. Perhaps that chaos could use an additional hand or two. It wasn’t often she came across shoulders that broad and, if she was lucky, abs that would haunt her dreams for years afterwards.

Never in any of his dreams did Archie think he’d meet someone like that. When Jughead described her, Archie thought his friend was exaggerating. It wasn’t until he was face to face with her that he realized Jughead was being nice.

“If you had warned me about Cheryl...” Archie says as he stands behind Toni. He lets out a low whistle and scoots further behind her.

Were he a better man he’d readily admit to hiding behind the diminutive girl; quite frankly, Cheryl scared him. Even now, after grilling him for what felt like hours, he can’t hide from her sharp gaze. What she’d presented as a chance to prove his ability to research and present was beginning to feel like a PR stunt than a documentary piece.

Or, to put it a different way, it feels like a lie. Archie had done some serious research on the house and the Blossom family, and none of it was good. The number of missing persons and suicides alone should have been enough to turn him off this entire project, let alone staying here for a week.

And then he’d found out about the murders. A string of unsolved, grisly deaths that lead to a complicated chain of succession. Rumors of fratricide and infanticide; poisoning and stabbings; cover-ups and conspiracies. 

What had started as an attempt to overcome his 2.3 GPA had become a pathological obsession. He’d started out trying to save his college career only to chase this red hare down the saturnine path. 

“If I told you you wouldn’t have come,” Toni deadpans. She pats him on the shoulder, but the touch offers no comfort. “But I think you’ve got this big guy.”

Even if he had known, he realizes, he would still have come here on his own. Drawn in by the history, Archie wants nothing more than to discover every secret he can this week, to uncover the truth beneath the tarnished veneer of history. 

He lets out a long, slow breath. What began as a light tug of interest has become a full blown obsession, a commiseration of mystery and morbidity that he hopes this weekend will erase from his mind. Archie wants the house to lose its hold on him; he can only wonder if he’ll be able to do the same.

“I hope you’re right,” he responds without much faith.

October 6, 1:45 p.m.

The ornate door opens with a shrieking fanfare as the group steps inside. The walls are laden with mahogany paneling and lush wall hangings, more museum than home. Antique furniture is evenly spaced throughout to frame a crimson rug. Despite the warm interior there’s a chill about it, a threat to any life that dares try to flourish here. 

Yellow afternoon light pours in after its guests, nature’s last stand against the darkness that resides behind the door. It’s onward march is cut off as the door is shut tight against the world, and the screen blurs to adjust for the sudden change in lighting. The only light now comes from the frosted window above the door, barely enough to make out the shadow that runs along the wall.

With a click the chandelier above comes to life as Cheryl walks along the walls turning on table lamps, though neither does much to banish the shadows that lay in the corners.

“Boys will be rooming in the east wing, girls in the west,” she says as the room comes to take life under the dull electric light.

Behind her the party gapes at the decor, Jughead sweeping his camera along the walls. Toni runs her hands along each piece of furniture as Betty moves to the middle of the room, her arms tight against herself as if cowering into the light.

Stopping suddenly, Veronica removes her sunglasses to stare at a painting just out of frame. Archie comes to stand next to her, his arms filled with luggage.

“Vermeer?”

Chery’s lip curls in disgust as she turns on the final lamp. “As if. We’re not peasants.”

At her comment, Jughead and Toni share a look of incredulity. 

“You’ll have the next few hours to settle in. Pick any room you’d like in your designated wing and be back in the study,” Cheryl points to a closed door to her left, “at six sharp.”

She starts towards the large staircase in the middle of the room only to pause at the top landing. 

“One last thing: it would be to everyone’s benefit if you shared a room. Unless you’d like an unexpected guest to share with. Ta.”

Cheryl waves and continues up the stairs, leaving the group to exchange glances beneath.

October 6, 3:13 p.m.

Cheryl’s voice enters the living room before she does, a heralding that brings nothing but annoyance to Veronica. She spins in her chair to face the doorway and crosses her legs, an attempt at professionalism. Cheryl comes in and looks at the array of screens along the wall, a security set up that any company would kill to have. Every corner of the house is visible along this bank of monitors, save for the bathrooms on the second floor.

“Is everything set up?” The words are more of an order than a question, an implication that even this small task is out of Veronica’s ability. It carries a hint of disappointment and boredom, a combination that is entirely dismissive.

Veronica bites down on a sharp retort. She had, after all, agreed to this silly retreat for a reason. Not only was it good hands-on experience, it was also an olive branch of placation towards the woman angling towards purchasing 75% of Lodge Industries.

She smears a condescending smile on her face instead of allowing her normally quick tongue to take the lead. 

“Everything is set up to your exacting specifications.” Veronica picks up a clipboard and skims over the list. “The kitchen is stocked with enough food to last a month; the water and electricity have been paid through next Tuesday. All video equipment -” she says with a wave towards the screens behind her, “has been double checked to ensure there will be no technical hiccups. And we have enough backup cameras and digital storage to shoot for the next year and still have room for more.”

Cheryl raises an eyebrow, the frown on her face showing her disappointment. Whether for Veronica’s quality of work, or her competence, is unclear. 

“And the monitoring system?”

Veronica’s jaw visibly clenches and she swings around to the keyboard connected to the screen bank. With a few clicks, each monitor runs through a preset loop around the house. 

“Wired for every inch of this monstrosity. I’ve also added a few minor face lifts for those of us who care to live in something other than a barn.” She turns and raises a finger, a coy smile tugging at her lips. “And I’ve made sure there’s a working fire extinguisher in every room of the house. One never knows when a ‘lightning’ strike may hit.”

Cheryl’s lip curls and her posture stiffens. Veronica’s smile flourishes into a smug self-assuredness. There had been many rumors about Cheryl, ones that indicated there was more fire to her than her personality. Any investigation into what had happened to the Blossom family manor had quietly been closed, and while charges had never been formally brought there were many in the upper set who ensured any lit candles where extinguished the moment Cheryl stepped foot into one of their soirees.

“Will there be anything else?” Veronica asks as innocently as a lamb. She tilts her head, the perfect picture of a willing helper.

“No,” Cheryl snaps, her throat strangling her words. “Make sure you’re not late tonight, I know how you Lodge’s hate to follow rules you don’t like.”

She storms out and Veronica lets loose a throaty chuckle before returning to the keyboard behind her. 

October 6, 4:59 p.m.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, Betty darling,” Cheryl says as she walks into the study. Her hand drags along the back of the Victorian sofa only to come to rest on the disfigured glass statute sitting next to it.

Betty stands and motions to her work. “What do you think?”

Cheryl walks around the makeshift structure of PVC piping. One of the seats from the dining room sits in the middle of the boxed in space, it’s garishly pink color a harsh contrast to the scarlet fabric that pools around it.

“I think it will do quite nicely. Love the color,” Cheryl says as she runs her hand along the fabric.

“I thought you’d like it,” Betty murmurs. “It was on sale. Velvet’s not as popular during the hotter months. It’s thicker, too, so it should make for a clearer sound when we shoot.”

“How often were you wanting to do these ‘interviews’ again?”

Betty shrugs and lifts another section of PVC to set in the frame. She sets it into the first joint, only to have it slip out of the second while Cheryl watches on. On the third try it fits into the frame and Betty picks up the caulk gun lying on the ground beside her.

“At least once a day, but more would be ideal to track how stress and boredom affect one’s mental state. I know Veronica’s open to more interviews -”

“Of course,” Cheryl scoffs.

“-but it would be good to get the others in here more often,” Betty continues as she caulks the joints together. “The more data that’s available means I can do a better analysis. Professor Weatherbee suggested -”

“What about our side project?” 

Betty stills, lips pursed. She nods, once, and Cheryl smiles.

“Good. I’d hate to see you back out so quickly.” Cheryl circles Betty, slow and patient “Especially since it would help with your ‘research.’”

With one last look Cheryl hums her approval before leaving the room.

Betty shuts her eyes and bites her lip. Her shoulders are tight as her knuckles go white. A crack fills the air as the plastic caulk gun breaks in her hands. She sets the broken tool on the floor and shakes her hands out before returning to the task at hand.

October 6, 5:48 p.m.

One by one the group enters the study. The room has a quieter opulence than the rest of the home, it’s styling evoking images of backroom dealings under a thick layer of smoke and underhanded dealings. The sideboard has been set up with a punch bowl filled with a dark blue liquid, paired with several matching platters of finger foods. All but Jughead pour themselves a glass and settle in among the sofas. 

Once everyone has sat down, Cheryl stands and flashes a brilliant smile. 

“Now that we’ve all had a chance to settle in, I think it’s time we go over some ground rules for the week.”

There’s a groan from the corner where Jughead and Toni have settled in and Cheryl’s whips around to face them, hands on her hips.

“Would the peanut gallery like to contribute?”

He sighs, then he speaks up. “We’ve already signed a contract with forty pages of what we can and can’t do, what to wear, and ‘suggestions’ on how we act. It’s a waste of time to go over it again.”

There’s a few murmurs of agreement, but Cheryl persists.

“We are going over it again, Jughead,” she says putting a strange stress on his name, “because I doubt some of you can be trusted to get through all forty-three pages.” 

Her on-camera smiles comes back, laced with the promise of a threat should anyone continue to argue. 

“Besides, I have to make sure some of you don’t ruin the upholstery with your escapades,” Cheryl says with a glance towards Veronica. 

“Now listen because I won’t be repeating this. We’re fifty miles from a town smaller than the entire cast and crew of 90210, so don’t go doing anything stupid. The nearest hospital is a four hour drive. There’s a first aid kit in every bathroom and the kitchen, which has been fully stocked for one week.” She looks towards Jughead with a frown. “That is not a challenge for the gluttons in the room.

“You will also be required to sit for at least one interview a day. And those will be in the -” Cheryl turns to Betty, waiting for her to speak up.

“The study,” Betty says, her voice quiet. “It’s got the best light and the most space.”

“Betty will guide you through the process. It should be straightforward and simple enough.” Cheryl pauses and turns to Toni, the smile on her face becoming more genuine. “And for you I’ve set up a dark room in the basement. For the digital filming there’s a computer upstairs,” she says dismissively to Jughead. 

“Be forewarned Veronica has installed cameras throughout the house, something that you all agreed to, in triplicate, before coming here. So I suggest none of you do anything you wouldn’t want your mother to see.

“Questions?”

Archie raises his hand only for Jughead to tug it back down.

“She’s not a teacher,” Jughead says.

Nervous, Archie runs his hand along his jeans. “What if we need to make a phone call?”

Cheryl shrugs. “The closest phone is on the Dudley’s property, the neighbors to the east, but that’s at least a thirty minute drive. Anything else?”

Silence greets her.

“Good. Now for your first assignment: Explore the house with a partner. Archie and Veronica in the attic; Betty and Jughead in the basement; Toni and moi on the first floor,” Cheryl says with a hand to her chest. “Don’t forget to film everything. The Lodge Endowment has provided us with handheld cameras to enhance the experience and bring a personal touch to the finished project.

Archie and Veronica are the first to leave, with Jughead and Betty close behind. Cheryl picks up a camera and holds a hand out.

“If you’d care to accompany me?”

“Gladly. Where to?” Toni says with a smile.

She slips her hand into Cheryl’s and let’s her lead them towards the back of the house. 

“The jeweled heart of the Blossom family fortune,” Cheryl says. She picks up her camera and points it towards the large double doors they are walking towards. “Great-great-grand-pappy Blossom was so enamored of his bride, and she was so enamored of parties, that he built her this.”

With a push, the doors open into a room that looks nothing like the rest of the house. Large bay windows look out on the property, belying once thriving gardens, and the late afternoon sun gleams through the two story columns topped with golden cherubs. Dusty drapery breaks up the sunny cream colored walls and the floor is a harlequin dance of red and black edged with gold. 

At the far edge of the room hangs a flat, grey fabric, jarring in its simplicity in such a palatial room.

Toni raises her camera and snaps off half a roll as she walks around. With a strange fondness, Cheryl watches her. 

“It was also an ingenious way to keep the fortune out of the greedy hands of the banks.”

Mouth agog, Toni pauses. “This is real gold?”

“And rubies. Blood rubies,” Cheryl says, her lips caressing the word. “Inset throughout the tiling. Considering the crash of 1873 I’d say he was a man before his time.”

Toni scuffs her feet against the tile, her sneakers screeching along the floor. “Except it won’t do you any good under all this sealant. Why don’t you pry it up?”

Cheryl tilts her head, her lips pursed. “Why would I do that?”

With a shrug Toni lifts her camera and focuses on the punched tin ceiling above them. “Everyone’s heard about how the Blossom orchards are finally drying up after 300 years.”

“Rumors are nasty little things that can get you in trouble,” Cheryl scoffs at the suggestion and walks past Toni, her heels echoing in the empty room around them. “Even if it were true, the Blossoms have weathered far worse and still we persist.”

She tugged at the dingy, moth eaten curtain and Toni gasps. Set into the wall is an intricate mosaic of diamonds and pearls, onyx and rubies that combine into a portrait of a woman who bears more than a passing resemblance to Cheryl. Toni steps up to it and runs her fingers across it. There are jewels missing in random spots, mostly pearls and diamonds, but their absence does little to mar the overall effect.

Cheryl raises her camera and in a reverential tone says, “This portrait of Aganilda Blossom is our benefactor in our times of need. She was the seed that brought our family to life, the leaves that help us grow, the roots that ground us to what must be done. And one day I will return to it that which we have graciously been gifted.”  
Her voice echoes throughout the room, her words a prayer rather than a statement. 

“A pity Jason couldn’t see this day,” Cheryl whispers.

“Jason?”

Cheryl’s head whips around and her mouth opens and closes. Toni raises an eyebrow and waits for an answer. 

“My late brother.” Cheryl stumbles over the words and her gaze drops to the floor. “He was my best friend and protector. When I lost him, I had nothing else to live for. It wasn’t until Mummy finally agreed to let me run the company -”

Toni chuckles. “It finally makes sense.”

“What does?”

“This cheap PR stunt.” Toni walks back towards the doors and sweeps her arms out at the excessive wealth contained in an abandoned room. “The Blossoms were never in danger of losing everything and they never will be. The only danger they’ve ever encountered is scandal and being ostracized from the upper set. You’re not interested in the history of this place, no more than you’re interested in any of the rest of us. It’s just a way to prove to Mommy-dearest you can work the spin and handle the press.”

Cheryl’s moue of contrition belied the sharp edges of her voice. “My mother’s been dead six months.”

The admission catches Toni short and she folds in on herself. She walks closer and takes Cheryl’s hand. “Shit, Cheryl, I’m so sorry -”

“It’s fine. She was a major bitch anyways,” Cheryl says with a wave of her hand. “I am hurt you think so little of me, TT. This isn’t about recognition. People have said all sorts of things about me, and I could change that in a second if I wanted to.

“What I want is to record the Blossom legacy, to preserve it for future generations. Once I die there’s no one left to pass this on to. Except for Nana Rose, I’m all alone in this world.”

Cheryl bites her lip, glancing up at Toni from under her eyelashes. The effect is instantaneous, and Toni steps forward to move a lock of Cheryl’s hair behind her ear. Her hand lingers long enough for Cheryl to step forward and kiss Toni. When they part they’re wearing matching grins.

October 6, 6:18 p.m.

“So, Archie, what brings someone like you to Thornhill?” Veronica asks as they round the third floor landing. Her tone is coy and her hand brushes his as they reach the next set of stairs.

Archie smiles, and lifts his camera. She wiggles her fingers in a wave. 

“It was this or a class that required a thirty page paper. And I’m not so good with words.”

Veronica cocks an eyebrow as she opens the door leading to the attic. “Sometimes you don’t need words.”

A faint blush crosses his cheeks and as they ascend she slips her arm through his. 

“So, Mr. Historian,” she says, “tell me all about this place and it’s dirty little secrets Cheryl doesn’t want the world to know about.”

They emerge into the attic. The view is partially blocked by various furniture and belongings that have been stored there throughout the years. A mannequin dressed in a yellowing lace gown shifts slightly as the door shuts behind them.

The screen shifts to a different camera mounted above the door and the room is distorted by the wide angle lens. The walls appear to stretch to infinity, tightly hugging it’s possessions closer and closer, while the ceiling drops in on itself. 

In the far corner a dark shadow shifts and the camera’s motion sensor kicks on. The screen zooms in on the area; nothing more than the shadow cast by a cloud passing by the sun. It zooms back out.

“Well, there’s the Blossom family murders in the 40’s,” Archie says as he picks his way through a maze of old furniture. “They’ve got this weird rule about the youngest child running the company, but Charles Blossom felt his brother Harold was too incompetent to survive FDR’s regulations. So he murdered his brother. At least according to the rumors.

“It was a huge scandal, but they threw enough money at the papers it didn’t get further than a paragraph in the local paper. The weirdest thing is that there’s no police record or a death certificate for Harold.”

A plume of dust rises as Veronica pries open an old steamer trunk. She disappears from view as she rummages through it. 

“That’s how the Blossoms have always done their business. Keep it all in the family, even if the roots go to rot. How old do you think this is?”

She holds up a black dress covered in strings of beads that catch the light. Archie shrugs and opens up an old armoire as she sets the dress aside. 

“Look at this,” he says as he pulls out an old military uniform. “Remington Blossom’s uniform, maybe?”

Veronica shuts the truck and glances over. “You really did your homework.”

He sets the uniform back into the armoire and shuts the door. “It wasn’t hard once I started. A lot of Thornhill’s history was missing, but once I figured out I had to trace the Blossoms and not the house it all kind of came together.”

“What’s your favorite Blossom scandal?” she asks as she passes by the mannequin to go deeper into the attic. There’s a metallic clatter and the camera shifts as a birdcage is put back into place, it’s door rapping against the cage.

Archie follows her, pausing every now and then to film the array of junk that litters the room. “The blood feud with the Lodges, actually.” His voice is hesitant, an unspoken question lying within. 

Veronica just laughs. “Mi abuela always loved to talk about the time she held out against the Blossom raids in ‘32. She always claimed that she was the one to blow up their whiskey stills. What does your history books say about it? Or have those been scrubbed clean too?”

“Something like that. The materials Cheryl sent say they were working with Hoover, but -” 

He stops short and the silence lingers as Veronica squeezes through another small pathway through piles of old sports equipment. 

“Archie?”

There’s no response. 

Veronica rolls her eyes and mumbles something as she works her way towards were she last saw Archie. She calls out his name again; the only response is a muffled thumping. Her brows furrow and her step quickens as she moves towards the noise. When she reaches the end of the room, there’s nothing there but the cabinet and the camera. She leans over and picks up the camera. When she rewinds it she finds Archie entered the cabinet in front of her, but never came out.

“Archie, this is not the time to be playing games -”

A loud thump and the cabinet door is thrown open. She stifles a shriek as she jumps out of the way. 

“Come look at this,” Archie calls out from inside. Her reaches out to tug her inside.

Veronica’s foot barely catches the step up and she throws up an arm to protect her face against the scratchy wool coats. Three steps and they’re in a separate room that shouldn’t exist in this space.

“What the hell?” She scans the camera around the room.

The walls are a vibrant scarlet only broken up with a messy brown edging along the ceiling. A bare bulb casts its light over a low table that’s been set for a child’s party long ago. The room is lined with stuffed animals, the beads of their eyes catching the light in a way that makes Veronica uneasy.

She reaches forward and tugs at Archie’s varsity jacket. “Let’s get out of here, I don’t like this.”

Despite her plea Archie takes a step closer and sits down at the table. His eyes are unfocused as he picks up a teacup and runs a finger around the edge. 

“Polly was here.”

Veronica’s voice shakes and she takes a step back. “Who’s Polly? Archie?”

Archie blinks slowly. “Polly? Who-”

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out. How about we go back downstairs,” Veronica says as she approaches him. With a gentle touch, she pulls Archie up and out of the room. With one last look back, Veronica follows him.

October 6, 6:23 p.m.

The door opens and a clattering of feet break the stillness of the basement. Unlike the rest of the house this room is mostly devoid of furniture and art pieces. The room is broken up by support beams and a few piles of scattered white cloth. Various work benches and shelves are covered in dusty bottles and rusted out tools. 

Along the outer walls dirty grey sheets have been hung, ghosts of a past unwritten.

A pair of worn-out combat boots enters the frame; a pair of nearly pristine chucks follows a few steps behind. Jughead peaks through a covered opening only to find Toni’s promised dark room and turns his attention towards the work benches, his eyes never leaving the camera’s digital display.

At the bottom step, Betty pauses. As she looks around the room she chews on her bottom lip, her hands clasping each other for comfort.

There’s a loud thud and Betty starts. Across the room Jughead bends over to pick up a rusted piece of metal, broken off from the workbench. He sets it back on the table and walks to the middle of the room.

“How long do you think it’s been since anyone was down here?” he asks.

His voice is impossibly small in the large room, swallowed up in the empty space. When there’s no response, he finds Betty still standing on the bottom step.  
“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just-” She shakes her head, her foot shaking as she steps onto the ground. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Jughead nods and doesn’t push her any further. Instead, he walks towards the wall along the outside of the house and squints at it. 

“I think there’s something over here,” he says as he presses a button on the camera. 

For a moment the light turns the wall a brilliant white, a lightning strike warning against the waning afternoon light. As the aperture adjusts shapes begin to form along the wall, strange symbols that seem more fitting for a medieval pharmacy than an abandoned home.

“Weird,” he breathes. The symbols run the length of the wall, changing every few feet, the camera taking several seconds to adjust every time a new one comes across the screen. “What do you think they are? Mycenaean, maybe Sumerian? Celtic?”

When she speaks, Betty’s voice is close, as if she’s finally left the staircase. 

“They’re protection runes.”

She offers no further answers and he doesn’t pry.

Jughead continues his exploration of the room as Betty follows close behind. It’s not until he reaches the far end of the room that he finds a door along the wall. Set flush with the brick, the stained, dark wood is almost invisible from afar.

“What do you think?” he asks as he turns to Betty. “Should we try door number 2?”

Betty’s face has taken on a sickly pallor and her hands tremble as she approaches. She nods and creeps closer to where he stands.

With a squeal the door sticks against the frame, it’s wood warped from years of disuse. Jughead sets his shoulder against it and shoves. Finally, the door gives with a cloud of dust. Behind it is a dark room illuminated by the camera’s light.

“What the hell?”

The light reveals a room full of half burnt candles, toppled goblets, and more white sheets litter the floor. Betty steps inside and kneels down in front of one of the sheets. She picks it up and there’s a clatter as a necklace falls to the floor. A sparrow and a key flash as she picks it up.

There are more runes etched into the walls here, as well as the floor and the ceiling. There doesn’t seem to be an inch of space that isn’t covered in the strange writing. 

“Do you hear that?” Betty asks. 

Jughead stills and listens. He shakes his head, unable to hear anything but the muffled noises that carry from the outside.

“There’s something there, just past the edge of hearing,” Betty says softly. “I can feel it in my bones, in my soul.”

She stands; in one hand the cloth, in the other the necklace. “This place isn’t meant for us.”

“Betty -” he starts to say, but she brushes past him. 

With one last look, Jughead runs a hand over his arm as if to settle the goosebumps along his arm. The door shuts behind them with a soft groan.

November 9, 1996

The screen cuts to a news anchor, a petite brunette with lacquered hair and a bright pink blazer. Next to her, a picture of Veronica flashes on the screen.

“Chilling News out of New York tonight. The daughter of Hiram and Hermione Lodge of Lodge Industries has gone missing under mysterious circumstances. Last seen outside of Rockdale County last month, Miss Lodge has been absent to all of her classes at Riverdale university and, most concerning, her father’s fifty-eighth birthday. 

“Representatives for the family do not suspect foul play at this time, though the police have not ruled anything out. Several members of the Poutine family, best known for their involvement in the Mafia Commission Trials, have been brought in for questioning but at this time there have been no arrests.

“The Lodge family is requesting that anyone with information on their daughter’s whereabouts contact them at 555-5555. A cash reward has been offered for any tips that may lead to her recovery.

“And later tonight what one good samaritan believed to be a cat gives birth to something you won’t believe. Stay tuned after this break to find out what happened.”

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to alicatgotyourtongue and heartunsettledsoul for looking this over for me. There are huge nods to Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House.


End file.
